The Valley of the Shadow of Death
by hobgoblin123
Summary: On their way to Shaitan, Tarrant and Vryce discuss the possibility of redemption. Mainly friendship, with just a hint of slash...


**The Valley of the Shadow of Death**

Disclaimer: I neither own the Coldfire Trilogy nor the Book of Psalms

Warnings: none

A/N: Well, this was meant to be my short Christmas contribution, but I never got round to finishing it in time. To honour the Christmas spirit, I wanted a religious theme, and after putting on my thinking cap, I decided to employ my favourite Psalm (23), which was, completely by chance, also my confirmation verse. The stuff Gerald quotes (...the evil, the terror of the night and the pestilence that stalks in darkness...) was taken from Psalm 91, but not word by word.

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The Hunter was staring into the flames of their small campfire, his arresting silver eyes darkened by a shadow of fear. "Do you truly believe that redemption is possible? After all those years of serving the Forces of the Dark? " he challenged, his usually so smooth light tenor hoarse with anguish of mind. "Although I'm loth to admit it, for somebody going into his death, your priestly opinion on the matter would be of great value. But kindly don't try to sell me on a flimsy _'might'_ now, Vryce. I find that word somewhat wanting in reassurance."

Stricken by the abject misery in Tarrant's voice, the warrior knight swallowed convulsively. "As you very well know I'm not a priest anymore," he answered gently. "I could give my opinion as a friend, though."

Gerald laughed, a bitter, harsh laugh devoid of any mirth which sent a cold shiver down Damien's spine. "The enemies of your enemies and so on and so forth, eh? But you should rejoice, Vryce. Just a few more days until the expiry date of my reprieve, and the world will be rid of my taint forever. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

"Cut the vulking crap, Gerald. I'm not in the mood for bickering. And I don't want you to die. Not anymore."

Stony-faced, the Hunter shrugged, his gaze never leaving the flickering flames, and like back then, as their God had rejected his companion, he was at loss what to say. Tarrant was way too intelligent to fall for a trite phrase, and he would have to weigh his words very carefully if he didn't want to risk blowing what could very well represent his last chance of getting through to the man he had gone to hell and back for. _Oh God, please don't let me botch this,_ he prayed silently. _I don't care which penance you will assign to me for allying with a creature considered evil incarnate, but show me a way to guide this lost soul, who's been walking in the shadows for nigh to a millennium, back into the light before it's too late. There's still good inside him, I'm sure of that._

_Walking in the shadows..._ Racking his brains for an inspiration, Vryce suddenly remembered coming across a huge, leather-bound volume while studying at the seminary in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs, a volume said to be commissioned by the Prophet himself. The name of the author had been lost in the mists of time even before their forefathers from Earth had sallied forth to conquer the icy depths of space. But neither the passing of ages nor the adaption of a belief system thousands of years old to the requirements of their new home had managed to impair the power and heart-rending beauty of the ancient words.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want," he quoted reverently. "He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake..."

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me," suddenly a low voice joined in, and Damien very nearly choked on his breath. "Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies... I know the Book of Psalms very well. It was among the few religious scriptures surviving the First Sacrifice. But I _am_ the evil, the terror of the night and the pestilence that stalks in darkness. What kind of table do you think God will prepare for me?"

Slowly, ever so slowly as if every movement was hurting him, the Hunter turned his head and looked him square in the face, and perceiving the tormented expression on those pale, angelic features, the warrior knight felt his heart clench with pity. "I've asked you once before whether you would wipe clean a slate of nine hundred years (CoS, page 247), the Hunter continued, each and every one of his deceptively calm words ringing in Damien's ears like the trumpets heralding the day of doom. "What would you do to the fallen prophet of your faith now if you were God, priest? Welcome me back with open arms despite my lack of true repentance like the biblical Prodigal Son and slaughter a fattened calf for me, or send me straight back to hell to pay for my sins? And on a more mundane level: what about Damien Kilcannon Vryce, the man? Could he forgive me the crimes committed against him? Wholeheartedly, even knowing that being given the same choice all over again, I would act just the same?"

For a moment, Damien wavered, torn between a surge of religious abhorrence as fresh as on the day he had learned about the true identity of the Hunter and affection for the human soul hopelessly ensnared in this undead, marble-like body and its hellish cravings. And in the pitfalls of the most brilliant brain he'd ever encountered. Then he remembered the adept's perfidious torture at the hands of the Unnamed, the serpentine creatures burning their way through Tarrant's sizzling flesh and a slithering voice whispering _'your church would approve'_ (CoS, p. 228), and a blessed calm came over him. Feeling slightly light-headed, he rested his calloused hands on trembling, silk-clad shoulders without giving a damn for the unearthly cold threatening to freeze the marrow in his bones.

"If I were Him, I would give you a good thrashing, ground you for the next five hundred years and make damn sure that you won't incite a rebellion in heaven. But as we both know, I'm nowhere near to being God, and I won't be so bold as to make any assumptions concerning the matter. You deserve so much better than being fobbed off with empty promises, however well-meaning. But mark my words, Gerald! Should I outlast you against all odds, till my last breath there won't be a single day without me praying for the salvation of your immortal soul, hoping with all my heart that the name of the One God is indeed mercy. As for my own forgiveness: I wiped this slate clean long ago. Does that make you feel better?"

"It might,", the Hunter breathed. "If I were human... I would have asked you a different question altogether. But things being as they are, that's all I have to offer to you. And all I can accept from a mortal without endangering my continuing existence, however short-lived that may be. I regret that, Vryce. Deeply. And now..." Tarrant gazed at the night sky, gauging the time. "It's getting late, and I have to find shelter soon."

The warrior knight was still trying to make sense of the somewhat cryptic remark concerning the _different question_ when Tarrant got to his feet in a motion so fluent and utterly inhuman that he couldn't help but shuddering. Coldfire flared up, filling the clearing with blinding unlight and turning Damien's breath into vapour in midst of the dry season. But right before the human shape in the centre of the unearthly flames transformed into something winged and feathery, he thought he could hear a silky voice whispering "As long as you're with me I will fear no evil. Thank you... Damien. For everything." Then a gorgeous, black hunting bird rose from the pyre and vanished into the night like a shadow wrought from darkness and ice, and the warrior knight was alone with his thoughts and a strange feeling in his gut he didn't dare to put a name on.


End file.
